She stands beneath the arch in anchor yard
 And pulls her shawl around her back.
 Her bandaged hands remember-
 Hooks of iron hanging from the walls,
 Fish guts in the blue-bricks
 And the rain with the autumn falls
 Around her shoulders like the night...
 The strange songs they sang will always
 Go round the moss walls
 Where the hot sun crawls.

 [bad word] back mackerel days
 Sing with me to the waves...
 We were the knives and we were the hands,
 Now we are the salt and we are the sand.

 We are the song of anchor yard.